This past evening I dreamed of two red Toyota trucks. I owned these two trucks at separate times a few years ago, and managed to get such thoroughly good use out of them that I used up their usefulness and had to get rid of them. In my dream I somehow got them back and had them restored to a brand new shiny condition. I parked them side by side in my drive way and marvelled over how nice they looked. The restoration had been somewhat difficult because they had become rusted and broken down. I did not do the restoration work myself as I am too clumsy with tools and would have made their condition much worse.
Funny things, these dreams that arise from within. I bought these two trucks when I was an avid windsurfer, using them to haul around small cabover campers crammed with sailing equipment, mountain bikes, sleeping bags, and wetsuits.The two trucks carried most of the things in life that held my attention, that kept me inspired to stay in good physical shape and travel up and down the coast in search of optimal sailing conditions. The idea of these ruined trucks being restored and parked in my drive way must be an inward summoning to myself to work at building up this physical body of mine, to be able to engage in further physical exhilaration as time gnaws deeper into these less flexible bones.
It is so easy for me to sit on the sidelines of life in passive observance as age slows me. The idea of rocking in a chair on the front porch and only being concerned about filling the bird feeder just seems so wonderfully indulgent, after years of struggling to make sense and to blend into the flow of modern American life. I suppose others my age ask the same questions about what it is that life demands of us, when we have worked long and tried to be of some positive attitude and influence, when the world seems to continue to magnify its madness. Now I am inwardly telling myself to get up and get moving?
The idea of achieving a stature of luxurious comfort and rest, from which one can overlook the vicissitudes of life without having to become involved in the scrap, has been the goal for many I know. You work, pay taxes, raise kids, fight (or resist) wars, listen to a lifetime of political speeches, worship if the spirit moves you, then come to that stage of living where you expect that you are no longer required to be involved. Dreaming of my little red trucks makes me think there is yet more living to be done, for which I must prepare myself.